


Merchant Yiw's Quayside Lounge

by spectrifical



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectrifical/pseuds/spectrifical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that his understanding of romance has run off, laughing its ass off at his expense, he’s not sure the afternoon has been worth the trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merchant Yiw's Quayside Lounge

It starts with a memo, nothing fancy, just a lot of small words explaining the evils of cabin fever and space madness and the things they can do to a person if left untreated. Luckily, the CMO of this tin can, one Leonard H. McCoy, MD, Ph.D, yadda yadda, _a goddamned expert_ , has the answer and expects the captain to request shore leave from Starfleet post-haste unless he wants said CMO to declare the whole crew unfit for duty.

Jim, who always strives to do right by his crew, declares himself appropriately cowed by Leonard’s overwrought proclamations and complies before Spock can quote statistics that favor Leonard’s mild suggestion: the best possible outcome as far as Leonard’s concerned. He doesn't want Spock's help.

That’s the nutshell account of the bluish-greenish-purplish hunk of rock Leonard finds himself staring at a few weeks later when Jim calls him to the bridge.

“It’s called Sealla VI,” Jim says as though that means something. It’s no different than every other jewel-toned hunk of rock they encounter. A little prettier than the norm, even by Leonard’s non-existent standards, but that’s all he can say. From space a Federation planet is a Federation planet. It’s the people who make the difference.

“The planet with the beaches?” Leonard asks, pulling hazy recollections from the back of his mind, remembering the name from the travel magazines loaded onto the PADDs he used to flick through in the emergency room when nights were slow.

“Mmhmm. Up to spec, doc?” Jim asks, head tilted back to analyze Leonard’s reaction while Leonard leans toward the view screen for a better look, one hand braced on Jim’s chair.

“Dunno,” Leonard answers, swiping his left thumb across his chin. “Got a bar down there that serves Kentucky bourbon?”

Jim’s face contorts in disgust before smoothing out into an approachable smile, his trust-me grin. It stopped working on Leonard as soon as he met him, but that little slice of reality never stops him from trying. But it does tell Leonard what he wants to know. Whatever else is down there, Kentucky bourbon won’t be.

“My mom came here once,” Jim says instead, offhand, as though presenting a humble gift rather than personal details about his mother. He turns everyone’s head, Leonard’s quickest of all, and rolls his neck to maintain eye contact with Leonard while he rounds the chair. “Never mentioned Kentucky bourbon this far out, but I’m sure—”

“—she would have,” Leonard finishes for him. Winona beats even Leonard for loyalty to and appreciation of Terran liquors. He sighs, linking his hands behind his back as he rocks on his heels, throwing a longing look at the view screen. “So much for that plan.”

“Sorry, Bones,” Jim says, clucking his tongue sympathetically.

“Hell, I’ll survive,” Leonard answers, consoling himself with thoughts of the beach. That’s something at least. Leonard hasn’t seen a beach in going on two years now. Talk about pathetic. Changing the subject, he asks, “What’re you gonna do down there, Jim,” and hopes it won’t involve a local or two.

“Oh,” he says loftily, mysterious even by his usual standards, “I have some ideas.”

===

Leonard hates beaming, but this planet might be worth the nerves he sweated through just to get here. The great unknown at the other end of the transporter’s targeting system proves exactly as appealing as promised, unlike ninety percent of the missions Jim tries to convince him will be fun.

He spins slowly on his heels, whistling in admiration. “Good to know you weren’t lying about the place, Jim,” he says. Sparkling water kisses pale, glittering sand to his left, while a vertiginous mountain range, dark and rocky, claims his right, stretching past the point where Leonard can discern individual peaks. A vibrant boardwalk, bustling with humanoids, cleanly splits the disparate landscapes.

A young, dark-skinned man passes wearing a layered skirt. The diaphanous fabrics catch translucently in the breeze but form an opaque whole about his thighs. He acknowledges Leonard with a nod and a twirl of his fingers, a local greeting Leonard remembers from the brief Uhura had compiled. Before Leonard can respond in kind, Jim nudges him. When Leonard twists for a second look, the man has moved on, taking a bit of Leonard’s regret at Jim’s disruption along with him.

“So, you like it?” Jim asks, burdening the question with enough subtext that an army of jitters parade down Leonard’s spine.

“Sure,” Leonard answers, misunderstanding Jim’s meaning deliberately to keep from lashing out verbally.

“Good,” Jim says, grabbing Leonard by the bicep. “There’s something I want to see. And I want you there with me.”

“You could ask, you know,” Leonard says, shaking Jim’s grip though it does little but lock Jim’s hand in his shirt. He can’t say how long before Jim abandons him for greener pastures, attention straying to known shore leave quantities, but his determination now surprises Leonard. “No need to manhandle me.”

Jim relaxes his hold, but presses so close that Leonard smells the beard suppressor he rarely bothers with, a nondescript citrus and wood blend that fits poorly with Leonard’s conception of his personality. It’s as boring as Jim is weird. Instead of focusing on that discord, though, Leonard consoles himself with his held-back complaints. Jim must know he’s got Leonard on the hook now, unlikely to run. No need to stake a nonexistent claim on him, too.

“Did you plan this?” Leonard asks, slowing his gait to a more contrary pace, forcing Jim to press forward without him or bring his long strides into skipping distance of leisurely. “Coming here?”

Jim ambles easily, matching Leonard’s speed without protest. Shrugging, he says, “Not really. Just coincidence we were nearby when Starfleet gave the okay. Might as well, right?”

“So where are we going?”

Jim shields his eyes with his hands and squints at Leonard in defiance of the sun blazing low over the ocean. “You mentioned something about a bar earlier. I figured that was as good a place to start as any.”

Leonard nods in approval. That’s the first sensible thing Jim’s said all day. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

===

The bar, a squat little building tucked off the main drag, perches by itself on the beach. It’s built out of some bamboo variant, kitschy by Earth standards, but enough in keeping with the local aesthetic to avoid singling it out as anything but a relaxed version of the prevailing architecture. The only thing missing are the large windows that dominate the other shops.

Jim jumps in to hold the door for the pair of lovely women who precede them inside. He treats them to a dazzling grin; they respond with polite smiles, cheering Leonard as it always does when Jim fails to charm someone. It gives Leonard hope for himself. Jim must guess Leonard’s thought, because he socks Leonard in the shoulder as he walks by.

“So what’s this place called anyway?” Leonard asks, rubbing his arm vigorously, as he adjusts to the poor lighting. Jim peers around, stretching onto his toes to get a better view of the layout.

“Merchant Yiw’s,” Jim says, distracted. He finds what he’s looking for and hooks his arm through Leonard’s when he doesn’t move as quickly as Jim would like. “Wasn’t even sure it’d still be here.”

Jim, guided by a vision beyond Leonard’s scope, leads them through the maze of people, seated and not, scattered across the floor space.

Dim yellow bulbs hang from the ceiling while tall, brown cylinders house candles at each table, supplementing the insufficient illumination through holes that brush uneven triangles of light across every surface. Smoke hangs in a haze, giving the room a dingy, dreamy quality. The din of many people sharing intimate conversation becomes more than the sum of their low voices through sheer number while soft, strumming music, somehow bouncy and sedate, punctuates the noise.

Jim jerks Leonard free of his observations with a push toward his chosen booth. Their vantage point offers an unobstructed view of the bar and its patrons while high walls cocoon them on three sides and create the illusion of distance.

Thick paper menus stand at the inside edge of the table, surprising Leonard with their quaint antiquity as he reaches out to take one. The massive block of text masquerading as the cocktail list intimidates Leonard: he immediately flips the pages until he finds the plain liquors.

Leonard finds himself no closer to a decision when a woman stops at their table and greets them with a wave.

“What can I get for you?” she asks.

He motions at Jim as he actually has his shit together, menu already closed and returned to its original place. “Go ahead, Jim.”

"Yeah, I'd like a Knockout Pill," Jim says. Having a name makes Leonard itch to check the menu. Then Jim adds, in the interest of saving time no doubt, "The same for my friend here."

Leonard considers arguing, but it can’t be that bad; Jim’s not much more adventurous in his drinking habits than Leonard after all. Better to let it slide.

As they wait, lazy slugs of cool air churn past them whenever a fan turns their way.

Knockout Pills, Leonard soon learns, are red-orange slurries that come in low, fat glasses. Leonard immediately identifies the tang of fruit juice and the excessive burn of rum measured by a generous hand, but beyond that Leonard hasn’t got a clue.

“I’ve always wanted to try one of these,” Jim says, staring down into his drink. He hasn’t sipped it yet, as though trying to decide if ending his anticipation is worth it.

Jim shakes his head ruefully and captures the straw between his lips. A slight nod tells Leonard that Jim is satisfied with his selection, which gratifies Leonard in turn for reasons he can't explain. Curiosity feathers through him, but he refuses to press for details. Jim will tell Leonard or he won’t, as he always has, and either option is okay.

“Mom came out here with my dad once,” Jim say promptly, making Leonard question whether Jim should retake his psi evaluations. A faint smile wavers over his features, unsure of itself or the information he’s sharing or both. “Shore leave. She told me if I ever made it this way, I should try the Knockout Pill. Dad couldn’t get enough of it.”

“Your dad had decent taste in cocktails as far as I can tell,” Leonard answers, glad to know the source of Jim's strange behavior and humbled by the privilege of sharing this with him. The echo of George and Winona Kirk’s visit settles over his awareness like a blanket, comforting and stifling at the same time.

As he contemplates this information, he finishes his drink and fiddles with the straw; Jim takes his time, which might be the smart move once Leonard notices how quickly the alcohol hits him. It buzzes pleasantly around his skull, fuzzing the blurry profile the bar cultivates even before alcohol plays a role.

By the time the waitress returns to take orders for a second round, Leonard’s spine has molded itself to the padding behind it while his limbs warm the vinyl upholstery beneath them. As soon as the waitress has gone, Jim rests his chin on his fists, propping them up with his elbows on the table as he regards Leonard, who hopes the soporific effect extends to him, too, despite the slow care he took with the first drink.

“Thanks for coming with me, Bones,” he says, enunciating more clearly than usual, which Leonard chooses to take as a positive sign.

“’Course, Jim.”

Their second drinks are pale, opaque affairs that taste like coconut. Leonard didn't catch the name this time. The skinny collins glasses can’t properly accommodate the ice and succeeds in little except threatening to tip the contents everywhere whenever Leonard takes a drink. Still, he consumes the cocktail eagerly and sprawls more expansively, wondering if he’s been drinking wrong ever since he learned how. Seems to him these things might just pack more of a wallop than the bourbon neat he prefers.

While he ponders this alcohol-soaked paradigm shift Leonard notices his foot has hooked itself around Jim’s ankle; he can’t remember when it happened. Admittedly, there’s little enough in him that cares, which is par for the course when liquor is involved. With inhibitions lowered, he often seeks contact with others. Jim's just never been around to see it. In any case, Jim doesn’t seem to mind.

Jim _doesn’t seem to mind_. Jim, who disdains intimate touch unless he's making the overtures.

 _Fuck_ , Leonard thinks through his cocktail-colored daze. He scrambles into a more respectable position, spine straight and feet rooted appropriately to the floor.

“Bones?” Jim asks, worried and lazy and fixed all at once, a little more aware than Leonard’s comfortable with.

Because suddenly he realizes that Jim would—they could… Why it hits Leonard _now_ …

Jim could have instigated something years ago. He’s not shy, not like Leonard gets. The fact that he hasn’t speaks volumes. And despite his new-found certainty that Jim would go along with him if he so much as intimated the possibility of something more, he won’t risk it. He doesn’t just want the good time an evening with Jim promises and would continue through life happily without knowing this much information about it.

 _It’s what you get for not paying enough attention, Leonard McCoy_ , he thinks. _You’re all bound up now._

Now that his understanding of romance has run off, laughing its ass off at his expense, he’s not sure the afternoon has been worth the trouble. He raps at the bench with his knuckles. A little less self-awareness never hurt anyone in his perfectly sound medical opinion. What’s he supposed to do with this information?

“Bones?” Jim asks again, snapping his fingers in Leonard’s face.

He’s neither gained nor lost anything solid, so he clambers for that place of relaxation again. Stretching his legs, he carefully avoids touching Jim with them. “Sorry, cramp,” he says, off-hand and self-conscious both. “I didn’t kick you, did I?”

“Nah,” Jim answers, face more open now, sliding down a bit to nudge Leonard’s leg with his knee, defying Leonard’s conscientious decision to keep his wayward body parts to himself. Not that Jim can be faulted. He can't have figured it out quite yet. “I’m fine.”

Tendrils of remorse wrap themselves up in Leonard’s heart and hands, set his fingers tapping against his glass. He tells himself he just needs some time to think things through; it doesn't help even though he knows admitting he played footsie with his best friend would not give him time.

Jim drains the last of his cocktail, gestures for Leonard to do the same, and flags down the waitress for a third—and final, for Leonard anyway—round. Putting aside his other thoughts, Leonard yearns momentarily for a life like this, one that entails relaxing by a beach with nothing more strenuous to attend to than a day spent in regular occupation. No Starfleet, no running, no adventure to mar the endless, picturesque days. Maybe he’d mend bones or treat the flu, cure nothing worse than a persistent cough. A simple life, easy.

Maybe he could appreciate an opportunity like that now.

Or maybe he’d be bored out of his skull without the thousand and one medical emergencies his crew tows him through on a regular basis. Glamorizing a pleasure planet ain’t that difficult to do, not for Leonard, who once kissed the dirt to make a point about the superiority of solid ground under a person's feet.

“What are you thinking about, Bones?” Jim asks, leaning forward, hand sketching a circle around his own face. “You have a…”

Leonard scratches at his jaw, unsure what Jim sees. He hopes it has nothing to do with the stray thought of life anywhere but on the _Enterprise_. Jim would take it personally, misunderstand the impulse that drives the fantasy. It's not about getting away from Jim, but Jim wouldn't see it that way.

“No, you’re smiling,” Jim clarifies, seizing Leonard's wrist. “Don’t try to wipe it away.”

“I didn’t know,” Leonard answers, unaware he’d smiled at all. It wouldn't have worked anyway, now that Jim's made him aware of it. A bittersweet happiness simmers inside of him and maybe it's just the intimate atmosphere and the unobtrusive sweetness of this last drink—a blue concoction with a skewer of pink and yellow fruit slices tilted lazily against the rim of the glass—but he doesn't want to shed the upward twist of his lips, not if Jim’s eyes keep glinting at him in the flickering candlelight.

“So?”

This time Leonard kicks purposefully at him, not hard enough to do any damage, of course, but enough that Jim jolts in surprise. "Good drink, nice weather, decent company. Could get used to it."

Jim returns the gesture. "Yeah?" He rubs his palm back and forth over his ear. "Decent company, huh? I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I always do plenty nicer to even it out, I promise." Leonard never plays unless it's poker and the stakes are peanuts, but this place invites modest audacities.

Leonard has always kept a tight leash on the possibilities teasing Jim Kirk opens up. Jim flirts like he breathes, continuously and autonomously, and it’s been in Leonard’s best interest to discourage Jim by not indulging the behavior. The way Jim’s eyes slide past him as though distracted and the way he doesn’t drop innuendo into the conversation, maybe Leonard needn’t have worried about even a one-time only chance with Jim. The disappointment doesn’t sting quite as badly as Leonard would have expected, thank the heavens for small mercies. When Jim's eyes square back up though, Leonard breaks the sliver of contact in self-preservation; he lowers his gaze to his drink and swipes his fingers through the condensation rolling down his glass.

Jim must know; he’s too good at intuiting these things. And Leonard can't decide if Jim's doing him a kindness by ignoring it. He suspects, given enough time, he'll appreciate Jim's tact, but he's generated enough goodwill and grace tonight that the finality of a negative answer might not be so bad.

Not that he’ll sack up and ask.

Then Jim stands. He walks around to Leonard's side of the booth, settling his hand on Leonard's collarbone; and he leans down, sure-faced with steady eyes, speaking directly into Leonard's ear as he waves his credit chip across the table’s built-in scanner.

"Come with me, Bones," he says, breath warm across Leonard’s temple, as he tugs Leonard up. Clumsiness threatens to trip Leonard up as he overcompensates for his current state, but following Jim comes so naturally that he sees himself through without embarrassing himself too much.

The barest hint of orange limns the horizon the horizon as they walk the boardwalk as though it, too, is not quite ready for nightfall. A welcome chill in the air brings clarity to Leonard's thoughts. Now that he’s out in the open he doesn’t feel half as drunk as he'd thought.

Jim checks his PADD, presumably to locate and confirm his accommodations, but who knows for certain with Jim. Once he completes the action, he tucks it back into his jacket and shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Hotel’s not far,” he says, once again answering Leonard’s unasked question.

Jim’s not wrong; too soon for Leonard, they reach the hotel. A squadron of fellow crew members loiters out front, but few offer more than the barest nod of acknowledgment, though a handful of the more overzealous recruits salute.

“None of that now, you guys,” Jim says, waving those individuals off as he pulls open the glass door for Leonard, hanging off the thing to offer them a half smile. “Save it for the brass.” With that, he trails Leonard into the lobby.

Jim flicks his gaze around before striding down a hallway to the right of the concierge desk. He examines the long row of doors until he finds the right one and taps his access code into the keypad on the left. The unit beeps its approval and slides the door open.

Jim guides Leonard in by the elbow, before turning to face him. "I thought I knew all your tells," he says, flush with triumph. He removes the PADD from his jacket and tosses it onto his bed, shrugging out of the garment in nearly the same movement.

"Well, now you do,” Leonard says, owning up as best he can despite his uncertainty. His lips jerk downward as he crosses his arms and fails to keep the irony out of his voice. "Congratulations."

Jim smiles softly, piecing his way toward Leonard though he stops a few feet away, making no further move forward. And Leonard is grateful truly; he breathes easier, because he’s not kidding himself this is anything it’s not and it’ll be easier to do the best thing for them if Jim doesn’t get too close.

“So how do you want to play this?” Jim asks, hands dancing on his thighs as though to keep from reaching out. An answering twitch torments Leonard's extremities. “You must have some idea.”

“Can’t say, Jim,” Leonard answers with upturned palms. His shoulders rise in a single jerky movement. “I haven’t much thought about it.”

“But you know that you don’t want to, right?” Jim says, turning away. His boot shushes across the carpet as he completes one revolution. “Otherwise you’d have said something.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Jim sighs. “No, I know that.”

Leonard opens his mouth to speak. Uncharacteristically, he has nothing to say. Not even a knee-jerk remark sacrifices itself up for an answer.

“Tell you what,” Jim says, breaking out in a good facsimile of a smile. “Offer’s out there. Take your time to decide.” He swallows. “No hard feelings one way or the other. How’s that sound?”

It sounds awful if Leonard chooses honesty as his measure. Oh, he knows Jim is sincere, that the offer is genuine, and that Jim really will let this all go if Leonard wants him to. Keep it simple, his mama taught him. That notion has gone to war with him, seen him through dozens of convoluted situations. Simplicity has been a good friend. And yet.

“You gotta tell me, Bones.”

“I—yeah, okay. I’ll, uh,” Leonard says, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, every bit like the spineless slug that let good thing after good thing slip through his fingers back in Georgia. He’d spent those days too busy being right to be smart and while he landed safely, it took hell to get there. But now Leonard is committed to something bigger than that hospital in Atlanta. And Jim’s the only person he’s never given up on outside of blood.

He doesn’t want to change the latter, not even to shield his own heart. Although his initial insight has proven correct and although this will likely be a singular experience, unique in the truest sense of the word, he trusts Jim’s capacity for empathy and the dose of reality he’ll hit himself with in the morning. He toes closer to Jim, who backs away to make space for him, as though he needs it in a room twice the size of his quarters back home.

“I think I’ll stay,” Leonard says, "if you'll let me."

===

He wakes slowly, warmth like stray sunlight through a window trailing down his left side where Jim’s pulled close His right arm pokes into Leonard’s torso; the other rests on Leonard’s sternum. When Leonard parts his eyelids, he finds Jim watching him already, head and neck supported by Leonard’s biceps.

“Hey, Jim,” Leonard says, heart rabbit kicking against his ribcage. Despite his cavalier attitude last night, he cringes from the fallout, intimately aware of what could go wrong. He shifts away, mindful of Jim’s placement next to him, but Jim doesn’t buy the clue, just slides the hand on his chest to wrap around his side, unmoved by Leonard’s half-hearted bid for freedom.

“Morning, Bones,” he says.

“Morning,” Leonard says, returning the burden of conversation to Jim.

Jim groans, drags his trapped arm free and tucks it between them in something like a more comfortable position. He scans Leonard’s face so thoroughly Leonard considers asking if he’s got an old-fashioned x-ray machine somewhere in his family tree. “Got any plans for today?” Jim says after a disconcertingly long moment.

Leonard glares at the ceiling. “Thought I’d check out the beach maybe,” he says. “I’m not much for planning.”

“I hear good things,” Jim says with false seriousness. More sincerely, he adds, “Why don’t we have breakfast and check it out?”

His eyes flick back to Jim’s face, blank of everything but a calm intent that softens Leonard’s distress into something more manageable.

“Okay,” Leonard says. “But what about your plans?”

Jim blinks and narrows his eyes thoughtfully, scrutinizing Leonard as though one or the both of them have gotten their signals cross. Leonard has seen the same look directed at everything from troubling problem sets to malfunctioning conduits Jim has no business fixing. “This was always my plan. Well,” he says, pinching the skin stretched across Leonard’s ribs, “not _this_ exactly. I thought it’d be harder convince you I’m worth your attention. You sure know how to mess with a guy’s timeline.”

An ache squeezes Leonard’s diaphragm. He clears his throat, but the action produces no relief. “You’re an idiot.”

“Apparently,” Jim answers agreeably. He pats Leonard’s stomach as he pushes himself to an upright position with his other arm. “But I’m the idiot who’s about to order breakfast, so think about being nice, huh? This is the only place in the sector you’re gonna find chicken fried steak worth a damn.”

“They have chicken fried steak on Sealla VI?”

“I checked,” he says defensively.

“But why would you think of it?”

“Mom said I should.”

“You’re taking plays from Winona now?” he asks, well aware that his voice is reaching a dangerously high pitch. He compensates by lowering the volume and trying to forget that Jim and his mother have talked about this. “I thought you said you didn’t plan for this?”

“Always leave a little room for hope, Bones.”

“Incredible,” Leonard answers as a bizarre combination of flattered annoyance and impressed disgust washes over him. Jim stretches across his torso, balancing his left elbow balanced on the edge of the bed as he reaches into the nightstand to grab his PADD. Leonard skims his fingertips over Jim’s shoulder blades, eliciting a shiver that momentarily distracts him from completing his task.

===

After three days of sun and sand, the stark white interior of the Enterprise exudes a cold and unyielding impersonality that Leonard recoils from. Jim, though, he lopes down from the transporter pad, all bolting exuberance and boundless pep. Leonard hopes at least some of that buoyancy comes from him, but who except Jim knows for sure? He loves nothing better than he loves this ship after all. Maybe he is that excited to see her.

Leonard follows at a more sedate pace.

“It’s good to be back,” Jim says, as they reach the hallway outside the transporter room. He knuckles at the entryway affectionately and walks backward to face Leonard, hand trailing the wall at hip level. “But I will miss that hotel room.”

“It was a nice room,” Leonard says. Now that he thinks about it… “So nice I never checked into my own. Huh.”

“Will I miss something else, too?” Jim asks. The carefully modulated tone, the studious way in which he avoids looking at Leonard as he speaks, well. Leonard spares a glance at their surroundings and hauls him toward a nearby alcove. It’s not private exactly, but it’s good enough for Leonard’s overdeveloped sense of decorum. In theory, this conversation can wait, but anything could happen on the _Enterprise_ at any time and he refuses to strand Jim on unclear ground.

With his hands around Jim’s wrists, he says, “Not if you don’t want to.” He squeezes briefly before releasing his hold. “You hear me?”

“Yeah, Bones,” Jim says as he claps Leonard on the shoulder and bounces on his toes. Not the most romantic gesture, but Leonard appreciates it anyway.

“Good. What’dya say we grab dinner after we undo whatever damage Spock and M’Benga did in our absence?”

“Sure.”

Leonard turns a surreptitious eye on the hallway, finds it remains deserted. “There’s something to be said for the discretion of Vulcan kissing practices—don’t tell Spock I said that—but, ah.” He leans forward and presses his lips against Jim’s in too quick a motion to properly savor. It gets his point across though. “There’s nothing wrong with good ol' human disregard from time to time.”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” Jim answers, puffing up. A terribly becoming tinge of pink brightens his cheeks, but Leonard doesn’t point it out. It would probably just make the blush more noticeable. “18:30 okay?”

“Yup. See you then.” Leonard backs out of the alcove, trapping as much of his smile behind his incisors as he can. His jaw twinges with too much effort and little to show for it. But he’s okay with that. Hasn’t had much reason to work out those muscles in a long time. Figures he can pay his dues now for as long as he can with interest if he wants to. And he does want to. For as long as he can.


End file.
